


Blood

by wiselavi



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 08:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiselavi/pseuds/wiselavi
Summary: Inspector Lvellie takes a stroll down memory lane.(Written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt, "Flashbacks".)





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, i used inspirational music this time:
> 
> "I don't trust anything, or anyone, below the sun.  
> And I don't feel anything at all."  
> \- King of the Clouds (Panic! at the Disco)
> 
> it's some good easy malcolm listening

He was four years old. Sights and sounds blurred around him, adults arguing over war, over hatred, over righteousness. He watched as Mother was taken away, scrambling to chase after her, crying for her. Father scoffed at him. He was only barely able to follow them and peek past the door and sob as her screams pounded through his ears. The next week, Father made him promise not to grieve, and then he dressed him in black.

He was nine, cheek stinging, stomping as angrily as he could to his bedroom. Father loved that monster more than he loved his own son and it made him so mad! What was wrong with what he'd done? Father only ever did what he wanted, and that inhuman, horrifying, waking nightmare? _She_ was even worse. He slammed the door to his room and curled up in a ball on the ground. What would he ever be able to do against them?

He was fifteen, praying to (or against, he couldn't tell) God, begging for protection for his family, desperate to figure out how to save the only sister he had left from Father. She was twelve, and he tried to save her that night, but Father took her away just as he took Mother from him. Father yelled at him for his selfishness, and he found he couldn't grieve this time, either; he could only feel an endless, burning resolve. Someday, he'd stop him.

He was nineteen, a ruthless energy flooding through him, working through the night on plans upon plans upon plans, anything and everything he could do to take over. He would control Central himself, would make sure no one ever had power over him again, or he would die trying.

He was twenty-three, an eyedropper in hand while he made tea for Father. It would take time, years, for this "medicine" to take effect, but he could be patient. He'd need that time to wrest control from Father, anyhow. He delivered the tea to Father, smiling politely while they talked, and he spent the next few years weakening Father that same, determined way.

He was twenty-six, standing by Father's deathbed. Father grasped his hand, as tightly as he could with his waning strength, and told him how proud he was of the man he had become. He patted Father's hand and left to let him sleep, soon after organizing his funeral as any good son would. Not an ounce of sorrow made itself known, and he switched his attention to what truly mattered: his own legacy.

He was twenty-eight, cradling his newborn daughter in his arms, and he swore to himself he'd never be the father to her that Father was to him. He would never let that monster get her claws in his little girl. He'd ruin everything in his path before he'd let anyone else hurt her. 

He was thirty-three, smiling up at her, that monstrosity. She was afraid of him; it was his only solace. Maybe, if he truly terrified her, he could come close to making her understand exactly how Mother felt the day she destroyed her. He watched as she drew slow, shuddering breaths in a futile attempt to calm herself, and he smiled ever wider.

He was thirty-nine, juggling his dealings with these child exorcists and raising his own new soldiers. These little brats couldn't understand, _refused_ to understand what was at stake. The worst was that exorcist girl. It outraged him that she would be so cowardly, so focused on running away when she had never been slated for death the way his family had. She was lucky, blessed with God's protection, and he wasn't going to let her get away so easily. He chased her down, time and time again, and he ignored it when her screams sounded just like his sister's.

He was forty-one, standing over the graves of some of the most dedicated scientists he'd known. Just one successful exorcist wasn't much, but it was something, and he'd do everything he could to ensure that their achievement lived up to his plans. And the other one, well... he wasn't going to mark that off as failure just yet, either. 

He was forty-six, trembling with anger, every last drop of his willpower holding him back from lashing out at her. She was his daughter, how could she act like this? Insisting that what he was doing was wrong, ignorant to all of the work he done the last eighteen years for her, hellbent on moving out and getting away from him and the Order. As she ran off, pouting, he told himself that he'd get her to realize exactly how he was protecting her.

He was forty-seven, his daughter trembling before him, and he told his scientists to experiment on her as necessary, saying the family blood was still worthwhile to test (though, for the first time, unable to convince himself he was truly doing this for the holy war). Anything non-fatal, he allowed, and he ignored his daughter's screams, her crying for her father, as he walked away.

He was fifty, taking a bite out of a new cake recipe–he'd been toying with different preserve fillings, as of late–and jotting down notes across two different notebooks: the first, to detail recipe ideas; the second, to detail combat ones. And then, suddenly, he was four years old again, Mother's screams echoing again, and his hand slipped.

Link looked up at him from his own work, concern alight in his eyes.

"Is everything alright, Inspector?" He asked.

Inspector Lvellie took a deep breath.

"It's nothing." Lvellie got up from his seat, heading straight for the door, and Link leapt to attention. "Follow me. We have work to do."

"Yes, sir!"

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't the angstiest thing i've ever written, nor is it actually tru trauma flashbacks for the most part, but it was what i went with regarding the bingo inspiration
> 
> hope u all enjoyed. pls love this bastard w/ me


End file.
